#magery

[davidsmith9582]

CHEESE ATTACK 🧀🧀🧀🧀🧀🧀🧀🧀🧀🧀🧀🧀🧀🧀🧀🧀🧀🧀🧀🧀🧀🧀🧀🧀🧀🧀🧀🧀🧀🧀🧀🧀🧀🧀🧀🧀🧀🧀🧀🧀🧀🧀🧀🧀🧀🧀🧀🧀🧀🧀🧀🧀🧀🧀🧀🧀🧀🧀🧀🧀🧀🧀🧀🧀🧀🧀🧀🧀🧀🧀🧀🧀🧀🧀🧀🧀🧀🧀🧀🧀🧀🧀🧀🧀🧀🧀🧀🧀🧀🧀🧀🧀🧀🧀🧀🧀🧀🧀🧀🧀🧀🧀🧀🧀🧀🧀🧀🧀🧀🧀🧀🧀🧀🧀🧀🧀🧀🧀🧀🧀🧀🧀🧀🧀🧀🧀🧀🧀🧀🧀🧀🧀🧀🧀🧀🧀🧀🧀🧀🧀🧀🧀🧀🧀🧀🧀🧀🧀🧀🧀🧀🧀🧀🧀🧀🧀🧀🧀🧀🧀🧀🧀🧀🧀🧀🧀🧀🧀🧀🧀🧀🧀🧀🧀🧀🧀🧀🧀🧀🧀🧀🧀🧀🧀🧀🧀🧀🧀🧀🧀🧀🧀🧀🧀🧀🧀🧀🧀🧀🧀🧀🧀🧀🧀🧀🧀🧀🧀🧀🧀🧀🧀🧀🧀🧀🧀🧀🧀🧀🧀🧀🧀🧀🧀🧀🧀🧀🧀🧀🧀🧀🧀🧀🧀🧀🧀🧀🧀🧀🧀🧀🧀🧀🧀🧀🧀🧀🧀🧀🧀🧀🧀🧀🧀🧀🧀🧀🧀🧀🧀🧀🧀🧀🧀🧀🧀🧀🧀🧀🧀

nice try. i counter your cheese attack with my arcane dairy shield, the cheese is deflected to you. i cast upon thee a curse of Lactose Intolerance and you flee the scene with your pile of cheese.

[varethane]

I unlocked Black Mage very recently and the level 5 Thaumaturge questline absolutely cracked me up.

[ofdragonsdeep]

2: Horizon

Where the sky and sea meet.

(technically spoilers for the very very first quest of Dawntrail)

Preparations for the trip had taken a long time.

Ships did not often sail to Tural, even though they were tentatively more open to trade than before. On top of that, the unusual nature of their party made negotiating fare a difficult prospect.

Krile had very patiently dealt with a number of ship captains who were not, despite their assurances, ready for the bulk of Stoh Oosh. While she was quite content to fly when the sun was up, the night demanded a place to rest, and the decks of many of the little merchant vessels simply couldn't hold her. That was the line for many of the captains, but after that, Krile also had to ensure they could get Haurchefant and his wheelchair up on to the deck, despite his assurances that he would be able to manage.

Ar'telan, who knew very little about money and the price such services might demand, had steered well clear of the whole thing. All he knew was that, by the time they boarded the ship, Krile was already exhausted, and Wuk Lamat was incredibly antsy to be off.

It was a little strong to say that Ar'telan hated ships, but he was not overly fond of them. Ever since his first ill-fated trip from Meracydia, it seemed that every boat he set foot on wanted to take him into one terrible situation or another. He could count on one hand the normal boat rides he had taken - and even then, on some of them he had been subject to some very unorthodox visits.

He sat on the deck, back to one of the masts, trying to keep his distance from the footfall of the sailors working on the rigging. He looked out to sea, and fancied he could feel the air get a little warmer. He hadn't been anywhere with a climate close to Meracydia's - even the South Sea Isles only came close. The bottom of Tural, if the maps he had been shown were accurate, would be similar, but they were headed to the middle for the start of Wuk Lamat's succession bid.

He did not want to be here.

"The morose look doesn't suit you, Ar'telan."

Mitron sat beside him, not even asking if he could. That was fairly normal for him, to be fair, so Ar'telan did not protest.

"I have things on my mind, that's all."

Mitron followed his gaze out, the sea stretching on. There was nothing to see, of course - they were far past land by now, and it would be some days yet before they approached Tural. Mitron, of course, had not come to help Wuk Lamat with her problem. He had come for the fishing, and the incredibly important job of moral support.

"You don't do well when they give you breaks, do you?" he said, an amused tone in his voice. "It'll be fine." He glanced over to Wuk Lamat, who was leaning over the side of the boat and completely failing to hide the nausea. "Probably." Ar'telan grimaced.

"It's not about that. I don't really know enough to worry about that yet, to be honest," he confessed. "I'm just… homesick." Mitron made a thoughtful noise under his breath at that.

"I don't think anyone would complain if you went home, you know," he said. Ar'telan shook his head.

"It's… complicated. It feels too final."

Mitron's eyes travelled from the sky to the dragons. Stoh Oosh was rippling through the water below them, but Orn Mahr and Moh Rhei were both at the prow of the ship, enjoying the winds.

"Yeah. I can imagine."

There was a silence between them then, but it wasn't strained. The sound of the wind and the shouts of the sailors at work rang out on either side, and Ar'telan let himself think.

Meracydia would not hate him for what he had been party to. Tiamat knew. Midgardsormr knew. Vrtra knew. The layers of pain that made up what had become of Nidhogg were complex, and he could not articulate it to his fellow mortals well enough for them to forgive the crime. But the dragons did, even if he didn't think they should have.

Perhaps that was it. He didn't think they should have.

It had been so long ago now that the pain had faded, but it had been so hard. He had heard the judgement in Hraesvelgr's voice, the fact that it was the fault of mortals that Nidhogg had to be stopped at all. That even though Midgardsormr had seen it for what it was, it still hurt.

He had wrung a promise from Estinien that he would not kill Nidhogg, and in the end, it had been false. Ysayle had fallen into a despair that matched Hraesvelgr's for so long that he had worried she would never rouse from it. He had eked ilm by painful ilm across the war-scarred fields of Coerthas so desperately never harming a dragon, and then they had faced Tioman on the mount.

It is like Tempering, they had said.

But it was not.

And even if the dragons had forgiven him, he had never forgiven himself.

All of his life he had held in his heart that there was nothing more sacrosanct than the life of a dragon. It was the epitome of Allag's evil - to kill Bahamut, to drive the others to desperate summoning, to damn all but a few to the Tempering. To trap his twisted idol in perpetual agony. He had all but wept when he had found the engine of prayer in the heart of Dalamud's workings. And there he was, on what had once been Allagan soil, commiting once more the sins of Allag.

To go home with it weighing on him felt like a betrayal of his people. And even if he could make peace with it, Meracydia would not feel the same as it had when he had left. He had changed too much now. He had been a fire keeper, a potwatch, the one who wrangled unruly kits. And now he was a godslayer.

He hadn't wanted any of it. But nobody in his position had ever asked for it.

"You know, I think it'll be good for everyone here," Mitron remarked. "A real adventure, you know? I'm not sure any of your little team have had the chance for one in a while." Ar'telan considered the statement.

"It would be nice to explore without the fate of the world on my head," he agreed. Mitron smiled at that, eyes on the sea once more.

"It'll do that stuffy elf- elezen, sorry, still got the First in my head - some good to see new places," he added. Ar'telan made an amused noise.

"Of all the elezen to call that, I'm not sure Haurchefant is the one you want," he replied. "But you're right. Maybe I'll call it an adventure."

"Just don't forget to call me if the fishing is good," Mitron said, a cheeky grin on his face.

"I would never forget."

[magerywrites]

damnatio memoriae (hortis de escapismo spoilers)

“Federico,” Oren says, leaning up against the stone archway as he watches Federico fold a series of dusty, once-white blankets, “why did you shoot Arturia Giallo, if you knew it wouldn’t do anything?” “It was a warning.” His voice is low, clipped, but not in frustration—it’s just how he speaks. Oren raises a thick eyebrow. “A warning? A six-inch shell to the skull is a hell of a way to give a warning.” “Yes,” Federico says, and does not elaborate. Federico, Oren, and what might possess a man to try and shoot his sister in the head.

[flustersluts]

ask game

tell me the best book you've ever read and why:))

[trashy-roadkill]

Little animation thumbnails for a soon to be animation coming soon 😈

[bumblewarden]

You know those posts that give detailed step-by-step guides to piracy so that nobody accidentally commits it?

That's Pavle's approach to blood magic. He's studied the theory behind blood magic in great detail But Only So That He Can Help Find Maleficar, Promise. If it comes up that one day the only way to save himself is to put that theoretical knowledge into practice, well what can you do about that?

Not tell Irving, that's what

[fidgetyhands]

I had a dream that very clearly illustrated the types of executive function I can't do in dreams, and I'm having trouble shaking it off.

I know I'm not currently doing a bad job of packing for the surprise 10-day stay in the wilderness that is obviously part of my college class. I also know that I'm not lost on my way back to the classroom somewhere outside near building 16b. For that matter, I know that I'm not in college, and that "surprise, we're going to strand you in the wilderness for a week and a half!" is neither acceptable nor something I have to go along with.

I know all those things, but I can't fully convince myself that they're true.

Today is going to be very strange.

[raevenlywrites]

This is too pedantic for my style worldbuilding, but I offer this up to someone for whom it would be perfect:

A plant mage who is called to work on a kelp, walks up to it and nopes right the fuck out. Person who hired them is all "wtf aren't you a plant mage????" and plant mage is like "yup. that's how I know that thing aint a plant." My gift to you, enjoy

The whole "Sherlock Holmes still believes in a geocentric universe" bit is funny, yeah, but it always makes me wonder about what massive blind spots might exist in my knowledge. What assumptions am I carrying that would make an expert in the field go "You idiot, that was disproven in the Middle Ages"

[marlinspirkhall]

The Un-Maker

To the uninformed, you are nothing more than a necromancer. You wear their sigil on your chest; the chief mage insists on it- after all, he can read magik better than most. He is the first to discern the true meaning of your gift, years before even you do.

His own magik is significantly strong- though, like him, it has withered with time. By and large, the other mages ignore you. After all, you are only a svvein.

The first time you leave the magery, he gives you a cloak. It's dark purple- the robe of a novice- which is a generous assessment at best. You can barely resurrect a magefly.

His eyes sparkle, then grow serious. “Take it,” he insists. “It will help you blend in.” Of course, you take it only to humor him- blending in comes naturally to you. It might be your only skill.

You perform small tasks in the village, basic magecraft which is little more than a conjurer's trick. You un-break a wheel. You un-graze a knee. When you pass, the best blacksmith in the village watches with baited breath.

You un-forge his sword.

•

While hiding from the smith, you crouch behind the stables. You won’t realise for many years, but the gate you closed on the way in prevented the escape of a horse. The horse- who dreams of the apples in the nearby grove- snickers sadly to herself.

There is a boy at the magery who wears red. Red, the robes of a master. He holds himself with the confidence of someone older, but both of you are five-and-ten.

One night, he lifts a heavy staff above his head, and performs a summoning spell: the most powerful of all magecraft. In an instant, the sky trembles, and rolls with dark clouds. The old masters rejoice, and sing his praises in the downpour, of a boy so powerful that even lightning obeys his command.

You shelter at the edge of the courtyard, and watch without envy.

He's the first to leave, when the war comes.

•

In the coming weeks, you wander the village. You are the only teenager left now that the others have gone, but there are still children to babysit. There are still bloody noses and scraped knees to un-attend to. By now, the villagers know your gift well- that strange, backwards magik you perform without intention. When your mere presence stops an axe falling on his head, even the blacksmith learns to forgive you.

But then, the war comes for the innocents, too.

Families flee Vale-Meg'ed with oxen, horse and handcart. The mages buy them time, and instruct you to leave with them.

“I want to help,” you say.

“Svvein-”

“Perhaps I can un-make the war!”

The chief mage smiles a grim smile. “It will not obey you.”

“But we haven't tried-”

“No.” He wheels on you, his eyes fury and fire. “Take this, and flee.”

It's his first-hewn staff: a spindly thing he carved as a mageling. It's little more than a bolt of wood, but you feel its weight when you touch it. Your hands tremble, and the old mage drives it into the ground afore you.

Sparks flicker.

“Go!”

When you stumble, the staff catches you.

You flee. You trip on your robes, drive the staff into the path, and watch dust fly where sparks ought to instead. You drive the staff down again and again, but it leaks no more magik.

In the distance, storms rage over Mages' Hill. Thunder crackles, and lightning flickers back and forth. Two dark clouds loom beside each other, fighting for dominance.

•

There's a body on the road out of Vale-Meg'ed.

You can't help but slow down. You've seen dead bodies before, of course– they used them for practice at the magery, even those that you couldn't resurrect– so you know what they look like.

For the first thirty seconds, this person is definitely deceased. Then, they gasp, and sit bolt upright.

You scream, and they do too.

Once the shock of not being dead has worn off, they cough soundly, and offer you a swig of water from their flask. Not knowing what killed them, you shake your head.

They down it, then cough some more. “Young svvein. You are but a novice?” They say, seeing your simple robes.

“I–” you say. “I didn’t–”

“Why, magikst most powerful!” They declare, as they check their wounds. “I thought I was going to lose my leg.”

You stare at them in silence as they reach for their purse. “Svvein, I know not why you've saved my life- and I have few coins to give- but accept my thanks.”

You take their silver, if only to preserve your cover, and help them to their feet. They accompany you to the end of the road, where the path splits. Then, they give thanks, and head towards Mages’ Hill.

It’s silent now, but the fires are still burning.

You turn away, and touch the embroidered sigil on your chest: the necromancer’s coil. You wonder if the chief mage knew more than he let on.

•

True necromancing is a complex task, often requiring a pack of mages. Death has compounding interest. The more injuries, the more mages are required. The longer dead, the longer the spell must prevail. Ordinarily, necromancers work long, arduous hours to resurrect a single person. Those who have an understanding of the mage’s art are shocked to see only one of you.

“Where are the others?” someone asks, as you pass them.

“They... Went to lunch,” you say.

“That's unheard of.” They stretch, and crack their back. “The first thing they do is always to collect payment.”

“This isn't your first time being resurrected, is it?” You realise, with a sinking feeling.

They grin toothily, and accept a discount, in exchange for not asking too many questions.

•

In the coming weeks, you un-kill many people along the battlefield. The bodies you pass wake up more often than not, always coughing and spluttering. That which once was jarring becomes routine. Some scream in fright, others clutch at long-healed wounds. Others jolt at the sight of a mage, and cower in your presence.

“Get away, get away!”

Beside them, a cracked mage-staff lies in the mud, snapped cleanly in two. You decide to forgo payment.

You make a living this way for a while, drifting from battle to battle like a vulture. It pays little- the soldiers that die are never the best-equipped, and you get there long after the looters do. Still, those who find themselves alive are invariably grateful to do so, and reward you as well as they can. It's enough to buy you board at the tavern most nights, if not a meal, too.

With time, the war moves on from the valley, though it rages in the distance. You are older now, broader of shoulders, and the First-Hewn staff is older, too. It grows brittle in your fingers.

Before long, it is broken.

You stare at it for a long while, for you are not in the business of breaking things. Still, breaking is a kind of un-making, you suppose. It falls to pieces with nothing more than a whisper, and you mourn it: the First-Hewn staff of an elder holds great power. That it is freed from your possession is a bittersweet relief.

For the first time since the war came, you think of the man who forged it. They say in the early days of war, Mages' Hill was razed to the ground. You haven’t returned to Vale-Meg’ed since.

That night, you rent a room at the tavern, and weep.

•

It's impossible to blend in without your staff, so you attempt to carve your own. For seven suns and seven moons, sparks fly, and lightning pummels the forest. You abandon the task.

The trees are scarred and pockmarked, and the ground will never be the same, yet not a single beam struck you.

For a week, you remain in the valley, but your purse-strings are tight, and the taverns are fit to burst. With little choice, you venture out into the marshland. You out-grew the purple robes years ago, and you’re dressed simply: in a linen shirt and trousers. For now, you are simply a traveller, and you don't intend to continue your grift. Without a staff to speak of, you hardly look the part of a necromancer anymore.

•

Battle does not suit the marshland. It makes the swamp reek worse than usual, and the reeds are soaked with blood. When you trawl for treasure, you find bodies instead.

Bodies who wake up confused, and ask you what's going on.

You sigh, and help them out of the mud.

You wade through the bog for a while, stepping on stones where you can. There's a strange smell in the air; acrid, like burning. The tips of the reeds are signed.

A soldier lies in the dirt, facedown. You roll her over so she doesn’t choke when she wakes, and begin to move on your way.

Her dark eyes open, looking up at the sky. She coughs, and you offer her your water-skin.

She refuses to take it. “I have nothing with which to pay you.”

“The water is a courtesy.”

“And the undying?”

You shift your feet. “That wasn't me.”

She leans back on her arms, and peers up at you sluggishly. “You have no staff.”

“Well-noticed.” You offer a hand.

She doesn’t take it. “There is one other mage who summons without a staff. This war is his design.”

“I am no summoner.”

“Yet you summon the dead.”

You watch her mutely.

“Have I revived you before?” You say at last.

“No, but I've heard of you. You travel alone, and revive villeins when others raise kings.”

You bristle, and take a step backwards. “Your payment is commuted,” you say, and retreat as fast as the mud will allow.

It is not fast at all.

“Wait!” She curses, and coughs furiously. There's a rending, and the slap of footsteps.

You turn. This time, when you offer herr water, she drinks.

“I'm Merra.” She hands the skin back, and wipes her mouth.

“I'm no-one,” you say, which is true enough. You fasten the skin to your belt, and, again, walk away.

Merra keeps pace with you. “I heard you were once a Svvein.”

You remain silent, heading back across the marshland to see how far she will follow. This is the path you cleared earlier– free of bodies– and you retrace your steps where you can. Merra follows all the while, and her sword creaks at her belt.

“Have you no business to attend to?” You say, at last.

“No more than you,” she says, with a smile in her voice.

“I have my living.”

“Then attend to it,” she says. “You think I haven't noticed you're avoiding the dead?”

“Necromancing is a hallowed ritual,” you say.

She scoffs. “Which is why you perform it in galoshes.”

You look down. “There's nothing wrong with my galoshes.”

“Most mage-shoes are hidden by their robes,” she muses. “But I'd imagine mage-shoes are made waterproof by enchantment.”

“That would be a waste of enchantment.”

“And what of your robes, or lack thereof?”

You grunt. “The war destroyed Mages' Hill.”

“Yes, many years ago. But I have seen robes since, and mages too.”

“And what of their magikal shoes?” You ask.

She purses her lips, and surveys the landscape. “There were bodies here, Necromancer. Did you resurrect them all?”

You say nothing.

“It's just past noon,” she reasons. “And this swamp was full of the fallen. How did you recall them all in one morning?”

You glance at her. “How can you be sure I revived you on the same day you fell?”

“As surely as I know there are no maggots in my mouth and nose.”

“Perhaps you have them on the brain.”

You spy the valley up ahead, and slow your pace. You're not eager to return to the villages, with their heroes and veterans and small opportunities; but you can't cross the marshland with Merra- there are too many bodies. Tentatively, you turn onto the village path.

“What killed you?” You enquire, as you walk along.

Merra gives you a look.

“It must have been significant,” you say. “For not all undying know they are so.”

She falls silent, and so do you.

•

You encounter a body on the way into Vale-Egar.

It's a maimed thing, old, bloated, and past its prime. Ordinarily, you wouldn't worry about it- you never seem to wake those who are too far gone- but, today, you pass it with a kind of trepidation. When nothing happens, you let out a breath.

“He looked like a noble,” Merra says, as you hurry past.

“Nothing noble is found in Vale-Egar, especially not by the side of the road.”

“Is that why you won't resurrect him?”

“No,” you say. “It's because he won't come back.”

•

The next body you stumble upon is more intact: a young man with a gaunt face who might as well be sleeping. He's hunched over and leaning against the wall, a tin clutched in his frozen hand. You don't wonder how it stays there- you know better than anyone that rigour mortis begins in the fingers.

As you pass, some colour returns to his face. You hurry Merra along.

The next person you pass is alive, and welcomes you to the village with a smile.

You have no coin with which to pay, but it's no matter. The presence of Merra's sword is payment enough, for there is a bed for all warriors in Vale-Egar.

“That explains why it's so crowded,” you say, as you untie your shoes and leave them at the foot of the bed. You offer to sleep on the floor, but Merra won't hear of it. Apparently, she's got it into her head that she owes you a life-debt. Tonight, you are too tired to argue, so you lay down beside her.

For a long while, she watches you.

The room in this upstairs tavern contains five beds, all of which are crammed with people. You lie on your back and listen to their breathing. This is the closest you've been to the living in a while, and so many, at that. You recall the last time you were around people, of the dormitories on Mages' Hill.

You can feel Merra's breath on your cheek.

“You said not all undead know they are so,” she says.

“Yes,” you murmur.

“So, that beggar outside-?”

“He was merely sleeping.” You move to roll over, but she catches you by the shoulder.

“Credit me some intellect.” She peers down at you. “It was fast; faster than any magecraft I've seen. How did you do it?”

The others in the room are all sleeping soundly.

“I know not how,” you say, in a single breath.

•

In the morning, you leave the village.

“You have no staff,” Merra says, again.

You watch her for a moment. All these years, the staff was your only companion, and now, you have another.

“I haven't the skill to make one,” you admit.

“So, you are no mage.”

“No.”

“And yet you raise the dead.”

•

Over the coming days, Merra accompanies you across the marshland, and the dead spring up in your wake. There's no coin to speak of, but the soldiers pledge fealty to you. You tell them you already have a knight, and a fine one, at that. Merra smiles, as a knight clad in well-made plate armor shakes his head and walks away.

“Have you seen her fight?” Asks another, dressed in mail.

You bristle. “No, but neither, sir, have you.”

He offers her his armor, but she won't take it.

“I travel light.”

•

As you traverse the valley, the marshland turns to grass. You encounter fewer bodies, and those you find are too degraded to wake.

The horizon alights with a flash, and Merra freezes. Thunder roils over the hills.

“You never did tell me what moved you to fight,” you say, quietly.

“I had a quest,” she says, simply. Her hair whispers in the wind, and you nod.

“Then you are bound to it.”

She looks at you with pleading eyes. “But I was dead.”

You shake your head. “It doesn't work like that.”

Thunder resounds.

After a day's travel, the once-lush grass turns to scorched earth underfoot. You stop in your tracks.

“This is Vale-Meg'ed.”

•

Amongst the rubble, there is but one field undisturbed by ash. It's the stable where you hid from the blacksmith all those years ago. Most unusually of all, the gate which you closed has since remained intact.

The horse stands alone in the field, her tail flicking back and forth. She's much older now, and has a grey streak on her nose, but you'd know her anywhere.

“You survived the war,” you comment, as you reach for her mane. She huffs, and hoofs at the dirt. You raise an eyebrow, and turn to Merra. “Could you open the gate?”

She opens it, and the horse races through the ruined grove. You follow behind.

Merra gasps. Right before your eyes, the charred treetops flourish and bear fruit. The horse gallops towards them, and you sprint to catch up.

You chuckle, softly. “Do you forgive me now, mare?”

The horse scarfs down her apples, and allows you to pet her mane.

•

You sleep in the rubble of the magery, and Merra takes first watch. The next morning, you are woken by the sun.

“You didn’t wake me,” you say.

“No,” she says, as she watches the sunrise.

You fall silent. This is her quest, not yours.

•

You spend the day on Mage’s Hill. Merra prepares barricades, and whets her blade. Somehow, you feel as if you've known her a lifetime.

You search the ruins one last time, and are not surprised when you find it, in the remains of the novice quarters.

It is a first-hewn staff. The wood crackles beneath your fingertips.

The ruins are painted orange by sunset.

•

Past nightfall, you remain alert. You sit a few paces from Merra, twisting the staff in your hands. There's a familiarity about it you cannot place, a raw power which stings you if you hold it tight.

The wind picks up suddenly. Too suddenly.

“This is magewind!” She yells.

You jump to attention. It's been many years since you've felt anything like it, but it chills you to the bone. All you can picture is that night on Mages' Hill, on the eve of war: a staff, held aloft as red robes billowed in the breeze.

Tonight, a mass moves upon you: denser than storm itself.

“Merra!” You cry, as the gale sweeps her aside. She catches hold of one of the barricades; hefty chunks of stone which buckle under the pressure.

You run for her, but the wind picks you up like a ragdoll. You fall, and scrape upon every rock as you’re dragged dowhill. You are drowning in wind itself, the breath rivened from you faster than you can draw it. Your clothes tear, then your flesh. You thrust the staff forwards, blindly, and puncture an air pocket. You push down, and pressure slaps you back. You tumble again and again, until at last you make contact with the ground.

You lie, spread-eagled on the floor.

A numbness overtakes you. You grip the staff so tight that it flares with energy.

The sky above you dances. Merra lunges at clouds, and purple lightning arcs around her. A shadow flits through the smog, impossibly light and fast.

The shape moves upon you: dark, tattered robes, deeper than blood, deeper than red, but unmistakably the same robes from all those years ago, held together by magiks. His boots- made of a fine, red leather, have similar weatherproofing, and your eyes dart to Merra.

“Face me,” says the storm.

Your head tilts back to observe him. It hurts to watch, this splicing-together of mage and fury. You try to turn away, but the wind holds you fast. You see Merra from the corner of your eye, silhouetted against the storm.

The Summoner moves upon you slowly, as if he isn't used to walking. “You’re no mage,” he says, at last.

On the hill, Merra drives her sword into the clouds, but The Summoner ignores her. He circles around you. Far too slowly, the feeling returns to your legs.

“Years ago, when the battle was won and there were less bodies on the battlefield than there should be; I heard the strangest whispers from the valley.” He speaks in a low voice, barely above a whisper, but the breeze carries every word. “They spoke of a novice, who summoned the dead.” He turns his attention back to the top of the hill, where Merra is fighting shadows. “You have resurrected one of mine.” He raises a hand. “It’s time to correct that mistake.”

Lightning connects with the tip of Merra’s sword, and the flash lights up the mountainside.

“Mer…” you twitch.

Soil cascades from the heavens, and you hold the staff aloft. “Heed me,” you say. “Heed me!”

It might as well be a twig.

The Summoner laughs. “You cannot resurrect ash.”

You roll onto your front, too weak to stand. For the first time in your life, you attempt to use your powers with intention. You draw runes in the dirt and chant long-forgotten spells, as The Summoner watches with cold amusement.

“You don't know our craft. The magik you do have is little more than a parlour trick.”

“I knew enough to thwart you,” you wheeze.

“Can you undo this, Pretender?”

He unfurls his palm, and the storm rages louder than before. It howls and howls, and lightning blasts the ground until Mage’s Hill is cratered.

Earth is loosened. Stones and rocks turn to vapor, and become part of the storm.

You crawl towards the place where Merra was standing, though you know it is useless. You might as well be crawling through mud in the swamp where you found her. There's an uphill climb past jagged rocks, and another fall would kill you. You have never had to un-make your own death. You wait, as the land continues to slide.

The hill remains un-mended. This cannot be undone– but you can still fight.

“This staff was yours,” you whisper. You haven't seen it since you were three-and-ten, but you recognise it's power.

“Yes.” He holds out a hand, and it flies to him. The staff cracks with energy, and he weighs it in his palm. “I have surpassed the need to bind my magik to the physical realm. But you… You cannot even cast an illusion.” He tosses the staff back to you, and it lands in the dirt.

You make no attempt to pick it up.

“You saw that first summoning spell on Mages' Hill, and were powerless to stop me then. What makes you think you can stand against me now?” His hand forms a fist.

For the first time in your life, lightning makes no effort to avoid you. It arches out of the sky, and bears down on you again and again. You lie in the dirt. You know there is no escape, for this is the mage who commands the four winds as he pleases.

You should be dead, like Merra.

The Summoner’s voice booms, magnified tenfold by the storm. “All that I call for comes to me but The Dead. You have hidden that power from me for too long!”

You open your eyes. A flash of silver runs down the hillside, too small to be lightning. You steady your breathing, and fix your gaze on The Summoner.

“You are no chosen one,” he bellows, as the light flashes again.

“No,” you gasp. “But she is.”

He turns, as Merra strikes true. It's a killing blow, perfectly aimed for the heart, but the storm coalesces around him, and the sword is ejected from his chest. Red blood whips around him, the same colour as his robes, as the heavens bend towards Merra. With a yell, she drives her sword into the ground, and the sky detonates. The energy flows through it once more, illuminating her skeleton, but she stands strong.

She grabs The Summoner with both hands, tearing his robes. He holds out a hand for his magestaff, and you close your fingers around it. It drags you through the dirt until you fall beside him, and you grasp his foot.

You have never needed to fight before, and you're not suited for it. Your attempts to trip him are met with a single kick to the forearm, as the wind tears at you. The lightning which rains down upon you hits all three of you indiscriminately, but The Summoner only grows stronger from each strike. He holds his arms out, bathing in it, as Merra wrenches her sword free.

The blade swings in a wide arc. It hits him at the same moment the lightning does.

For a moment, they are bound together; Knight and Summoner both. They fall as one unit, and crumple to the ground.

Merra smoulders. You struggle towards her. Your back stings; patches exposed to the open air as rainwater falls into the cuts.

Though it feels like an age, you reach her. The Summoner lies mere inches away, motionless.

You place your hands on either side of Merra’s head, and call on a power you have no control over.

With surprising strength, her hands push yours away.

“You must leave this place,” she whispers. “Leave, or he'll never die.”

You grasp her hands with your own. “But you will live.”

Her laugh is a death rattle. “He has killed so many. What's one more?”

You shake your head, and force yourself upwards. Your arms tremble with effort; your legs won't respond.

The Summoner does not stir.

“Leave,” Merra utters.

You fall at her side. “I cannot.”

•

You're not sure for how long you lie there. It could be days, it could be mere hours.

The storm passes on, though the skies remain grey.

The horse trots towards you, and, at last, you find the strength to sit up.

“Merra,” you say.

She looks up.

The two of you struggle to stand, sliding in the mud as you do.

You stroke the mare. The grey streak has disappeared from her nose, and Merra notices it too. She scratches her ears, and you let out a breath.

“A fine steed,” you say, “For an immortal knight.”

She looks at you with wonder. Neither of you know if it is true.

No one has ever died in your attendance before, and you've yet to see if it's possible. As you leave the crater which was once Mages’ Hill, ash falls upon you, followed by light rain. Merra tenses, but says nothing as she climbs onto the horse. She helps you on, and the horse moves in a direction of her choosing.

Neither of you turn to see what becomes of The Summoner’s remains, but the rain doesn't follow you for long. There begins a light sunshine, and the horse gains to a canter, as Merra hugs her mane for balance, and you cling to Merra for yours. She laughs, and spurs the horse onwards with a shout.

The three of you ride towards Vale-Egar.

[unsoundedcomic]

Please tell me all about first materials. How accessible different ones are, what each is typically used for, etcetera.

That is an *enormous* topic, one about which Kasslynian scholars have been writing whole books for centuries. One might attend a magery for years, with a specialization in the subject, and still not know all there is to know about them!

But I shall sum up.

First Materials all, by and large, are the remnants of certain types of senet beasts. First Carbon comes from Efheby scales. First Silver from Agib marrow. First Silk from Spindlefly cocoons. First Water from Stormbringers. First Charge from Scatters. First Light from Suncrumbs. First Earth from Mountain Ogres. And on and on.

Some First Materials have special properties in addition to being the best example of their respective type. For example First Silver, as we've seen, extends the will of an agib. It allows Lady Ilganyag (she is an agib) to manipulate it from across space and dimensions. First Light can be captured in FM containers like a vapour, and the only way to destroy it is to disperse it.

Now, why are FMs useful to humans? Two important reasons. The first is that their metaphysical structure - their internal khert - stands apart from the universal khert. No khert-lines pass through a FM. This makes them not only immune to pymary, but they can cut through a khert-line to stop a spell in its tracks. Great for anti-wright weaponry, or to protect something from being breached by spell.

Secondly, because a FM's khert is isolated, you can store pymary inside is. You can have a whole spell in there, intact, or cram Aspects in there to power your own spell. This discovery allowed wrights to begin using FMs to craft pymaric devices; some as simple as a grenade, others as complicated as Uaid.

Some FMs are more powerful than others. When wrights speak of that power, they're almost always referring to the material's capacity. How much pymary and aspects can it hold. Is it a 20mb chunk of First Earth or a 2tb strand of First Silver. What can they pack in there? These capacities, as well as the form in which they're found, have made certain FMs more suited to some applications than others. For example, since Mountain Ogres are sometimes found intact, or at least in enormous pieces, that makes First Earth a common starter material for khert-hubs. A pound of First Earth may not have anything like the power of an ounce of First Silk, but if you're lucky you'll find so damn much of it that it won't matter. And you're not going to be able to move it (pymary proof), so you turn it into a khert-hub and build a city around it.

This is fortunate, as the massive Mountain Ogres are by far the largest source of First Materials. Earth and sand are the most common, but most of your gemstones and ores come from them as well. There's also farcyte, a FM found in their eyes and brains crucial to penetrating the isolated kherts of FMs so that they can be filled.

I think that's a good primer. Go forth and craft your first pymaric, aspirant.

[dandelion-wings]

In the classic 'warmups that ate my whole writing session,' have some not-so-baby Kaeya (he's like fourteen here, but still fairly newly-come to the Dawn Winery) from yet another AU @theabysscomeshome and I were kicking around on Discord yesterday. >> I like the Dawn Winery family vibes, okay.

---

They have a lot of trust to rebuild after the incident. Master Crepus says that they need to start with more focused language lessons, so that they can actually explain to Kaeya what's going on. Adelinde does understand where he's coming from, but she thinks it needs to be a little more basic than that.

Fortunately, Kaeya seems to have latched onto her as the safest person around: domestic, slight of build, without a Vision and apparently not combat-trained. He doesn't have to know what the head housemaid has taught her to do with kitchen knives (or what she has done with them for Master Diluc, the once, and what she would gladly do for him). She takes care to be always gentle with him, to keep her voice soft, to reinforce that perception of safety. To make her someone he doesn't feel he has to flee.

Master Crepus looks sorrowful every time Kaeya ducks behind her when he enters the room. He understands why, though, and he doesn't press. There's time enough for Kaeya to re-learn how kind he, too, can be. For now, Master Crepus reassigns Adelinde from all her other duties. Taking care of Kaeya is one of only two she has to concern herself with. Keeping watch on him is the other.

He *was* the other half of the incident, after all. What he did cannot happen ever again.

Despite that reassignment, Adelinde carries on with some of a housemaid's work, picking and choosing whatever seems to suit Kaeya's needs that day. It means she spends a lot of time in the kitchen. He may not trust them, but putting temptation in front of him long enough does induce him to eat. And everyone from the Cathedral's healers to the fieldworkers agree that he absolutely needs to be fed.

"Two cups of flour," Adelinde tells him, showing him the bag, then each scoop, as she measures it into the bowl. Formal language lessons are all well and good, but she knows that the expensive Akademiya tutor isn't teaching him this vocabulary. That he can see in the process that she's not putting anything harmful into the food is just as important.

(That first potion was, she thinks, a terrible idea. It was absolutely necessary; the Mages' taint *had* to be cleared, or it might have killed him or worse. And there was no way to tell him in words why it was given, or what the effects would be. But they never should have slipped it into his food.)

"Salt," she goes on, showing him the block. "We'll scrape some off. That's enough. Then we'll cut in the butter, and the lard. You want to taste that? It won't taste good, but all right. Now we sprinkle milk over it as we knead it together. I'll do that. Do you want to start chopping the meat?"

No one else would approve of giving him a knife, which is why Adelinde has cleared out a small side-kitchen instead of working in the main one. The thing is, he knows full well he's under watch. She sees how he flinches whenever someone looks so much as alarmed at his behavior. He's afraid of being hurt, again, if anyone even thinks he's trying more magery. How can he think otherwise, with his burns still healing and Sir Jean checking in almost daily on Diluc's behalf? It's not as if his fears are groundless. If he attempts another Abyssal ritual, they'll have to do *something* to stop him.

If they want him to trust them, they need to demonstrate that they're willing to trust him in exchange. So, the knife. Adelinde isn't ready to turn her back on him yet while he's holding it, but she'll do that eventually, too. For now it's no surprise that she isn't when she's working at the same counter and all that they'll need is already arrayed in front of them.

She rolls out the pastry and divides it out into the pie pans while he chops the meat fine and dumps it into the bowl. Then, after making him wash his hands, she presents the spice rack before him. "What do you want to put into this?"

For this, she gives him is the appropriately-sized spoon and free rein. The pies may come out oddly-tasting this way--they have before--but he knows by now what she does use, and she wants to let him experiment. He tastes a bit of each spice, thoughtfully, mixes them in his hand and tries various combinations, and finally pours scoops of each one he's chosen into the bowl. Adelinde watches him out of the corner of her eye as she whips the eggs, but he doesn't do anything she'd have to scold him for--dumping a whole spice jar in, or licking his finger and sticking it into a jar to taste, or touching the meat and then a jar. He's so much more careful with food than Master Diluc ever was.

Pouring the eggs in, she offers him the spoon. "Do you want to stir?"

He does. Adelinde watches as he mixes it all together, then pours it into the pastry herself before showing him how to fold the tops up. Then into the oven--he stays well back from the heat--and she makes them both hot cocoa while they wait for them to bake. He huddles over his mug like he expects it to be taken from him. Or tampered with.

(*How* she wishes they hadn't put that potion into his food.)

She takes the pies out herself and puts them on the cooling rack, pretending not to notice Kaeya scraping the last, dregs of cocoa from the pot while her back is turned. He never tries to ask for more

than he's offered, and that's from more than just the language barrier; he's expressive enough in his gestures when he wants to be. Someday she'll be able to tell him that he can have as much as he likes. For now, she'll let him get away with all his pilferage.

And make more hot chocolate while the pies are cooling, of course.

By the time they've finished the second pot, they're cool enough to eat without burning his mouth. Adelinde gets out a plate, then pauses, a thought occurring to her. Instead of loading it up herself, she hands it to Kaeya, then steps back, gesturing towards the rack. "How many do you want?"

The look he gives her is eloquently disbelieving. She can almost hear the question: surely she's not telling him to take the whole batch. There's no way to explain to him yet that she *would* let him have it all if he wanted, and hope he had the sense to save some for later rather than give himself the stomachache, but that's not the point. Right now she just wants to give him a choice.

She's expecting him to simply take a pie or two, readying herself to smile and nod in approval so he knows he's not taking too much. Instead, he looks at the rack, clearly counting off, then looks at her and says, with tremendous care, "I want... two?" He holds up two fingers as he says it.

It's the first time he's actually tried to answer her in Mond. Adelinde beams at him.

"Yes, you can have two," she says. "Or more. Three, or four, or five," she adds, holding up her fingers in turn, because she doesn't know whether 'more' is a word he's learned yet, nor any of the numbers. "As many as you want."

Kaeya studies her for a moment as if looking for a trap, then says, "I want four."

"You can have four." Adelinde gestures again towards the rack, encouragingly. "Choose whichever ones you like."

He takes the pies, quickly, before she can take the offer back, and then returns to the little table in the corner and hunches over them. Adelinde takes three pies for herself. She only really wants one, but she hopes that this way he won't think he's over-indulging; she can manage two, and wrap the third in her napkin as demonstration, so that if he does end up finding he's taken too much he'll know it's all right to keep for later.

She compliments his spice choices as they eat, though privately she thinks the rosemary was too much. Kaeya unhunches, slowly, once he's wolfed the first two down and finds himself working his way more slowly through the third. He's looking uncertainly at the fourth when Adelinde finishes her own second pie. She deliberately wraps hers in her napkin and tucks it into her pocket, making sure he's watching. He wraps his own, watching her as she does it and relaxing further when she nods.

"I want... one more?" He holds up a finger, again, and the wrapped pie in the other hand, and Adelinde smiles and nods at him before rising to get him another napkin. Kaeya pockets them and looks satisfied. Then he looks up at her and, again in Mond, says something that from the intonation he must have learned in his formal lessons. "Thank you."

Something warm swells in Adelinde's chest. "You're welcome," she tells him, and on impulse holds her arms out wide. He steps forward into the hug, tentative at first, then clinging tight when she pulls him in against her. She pretends not to notice how he's shaking and simply holds him until he chooses to let go.

It feels like a first step forward, after all their steps back. She's so, so proud to be part of it.

[scrollsfromarebornrealm]

Free Day #3: Built

-----

Neyuni frowned, pressing herself as close as she could to the wall. Normally she could hear very well, but ever since Riven and her friends had arrived, it’d become hard to pick up on conversations. A frown crossed the little Hhetsarro’s face as only muffled noises came though. Getting up, she moved over to the sealed door and...ah!

“-sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry.” Mathye said. “If anything, I should be the one apologizing. I should have been able to sense what’s been going on, but—”

“Mat, you said it yourself. The machina and the regulators play merry hell with your white magery. Unless you and Halone picked up another skill that we didn’t know about, none of us expect that you’re able to see what’s going on with the soul.” Augustine interjected.

“Just the fact that you were able to pick up on ‘wrongness’ I would think is pretty commendable.” Reinhardt added. He sombered. “But to think Zoraal Ja went this far, just to try and replicate us…”

“Do you think Sphene knew?” Riven asked. Mathye snorted.

“Knew? She was probably up to her little machina head in it!” He replied, his tone acidic. “Damn the so-called First Promise! Here’s even more empirical evidence that he wasn’t fit for anything, dabbling in affairs that were far beyond him!”

“Also the possible fact that our kind is unique amongst the reflections.” Sebastian said dryly. “As if we needed more proof that Emet-Selch was completely and utterly deranged.”

“Not just the reflections.” Augustine’s gaze flicked to Yaana. “You and any other fighter that are…for lack of a better word, my apologizes—” He made quotation marks with his fingers. “pure Turali, so to speak. Your bloodlines may have never been tampered with. That’s probably the primary reason why there have never been Dominants and Eikons on this side of the world.”

“Tampered with?” Yaana repeated, tilting her head in confusion. Then she blinked as a thought occurred to her.

“Wait, I do remember you all talking about this when the tournament was going on! You said that your bodies have been designed for your sou—I mean, Eikons! That’s not just limited to you lot?!” Neyuni’s eyes widened.

“No. High-aetherical bloodlines are extremely common in both Eorzea and the Far East.” Mathye said, gesturing. “The body that houses an Eikon needs to be able to hold and channel a vast amount of aether—without giving out. Millennia ago in Eorzea, every single race—Hyurs, Lalafell, Viera, just to name a few—all were subjected to enhancement and breeding programs by the Allagan Empire. The goal was to create powerful bloodlines in almost all the population—essentially ensuring that Eikons could endure from generation to generation.”

“A few millennia later, three warring nations only added to what the Allagans had started.” Sebastian added. “The Mhachi, Nymians, and Amdaporians considered high aetherical ability to be an extremely attractive trait in a person. Not only did they breed for powerful spellcasters, but also for their own Dominants and Eikons as well.

“So, you lot are quite literally built for this.” Yaana breathed. She looked at Mathye. “Is this something that can be reversed?” The group looked at each other, and Riven was the first to speak.

“Maybe?” She offered, shrugging. “The problem is, the idea of reversing the process is still very new. And now there’s a general push for our kind to repopulate, especially since in certain cases we are the only ones that can fight and defeat certain…creatures.”

“Which is a tall order if I ever heard one.” Reinhardt muttered.

“Repopulate?” Yaana repeated. “Wait. I thought there were more of you?!” Her eyes widened as the Eorzeans shook their heads.

“The Garlean Empire did a very good job of exterminating our kind.” Augustine said softly. “Wiping out entire bloodlines and damaging the Eikon to the point where all they could do was rejoin the Lifestream, so that their aether could disperse into the great flow.”

“There’s been a few instances of a distant-enough relation and the remnants of the Eikon are able to rejoin, but they won’t be as powerful as they once were.” Riven inhaled, remembering what had happened in Sharlayan shortly before Wuk Lamat’s arrival. It had been discovered that there was a surviving member of one of the Hingashi Eikon bloodlines living and working in the city as a researcher on the Ragnarok. That distant connection had been enough for the Eikon associated with the emperor’s family, Yahata—to manifest in the newborn the survivor had given birth to.

Not to mention, some Eikons don’t follow bloodlines…they follow the soul. Valefor being one of them. Then there had been the events involving the Twelve—those who had stayed behind were still working on reestablishing their connections to the planet.

“That might be something worth talking to the Vow of Resolve and the Vow of Reason about.” Mathye’s voice broke into Riven’s thoughts. “Zoraal Ja wasn’t the first fool to try and replicate an Eikon/Dominant pair, and he won’t be the last. If someone was motivated enough to cross the sea and try to get their hands on a turaal vidraal…”

"More artificial Eikons.” Sebastian finished. Riven frowned, turning her head towards the room’s door.

“Little ears.” She said. Neyuni gasped.

[magerywrites]

magery hello,,!! i hope this isnt too forward but i discovered you via _maiqo on twitter a long while ago and have been absolutely enamored by your works ever since — your writing is an enormous inspiration to me and i sincerely hope that my works can one day match the same level of excellence.

you absolutely dont have to indulge me at all, but is there any advice you can give in terms of writing character studies? :’D if not its totally ok !! and anything works !! i just figured it’s worth a shot haha

Thank you very much! It's always lovely to learn that what I've written has meant something to someone. I appreciate it.

In an attempt to answer your question, I'll talk about how I think about and approach character studies. It may be that much of what I say fails to be useful to you, but I hope to be of some small aid regardless!

To begin, I think the most fundamental element of writing a character study—as a piece of fanfiction, though much of this can be applied without significant difficulty to orginal works—is to have a firm vision of who the character is to you.

This is separate from having a firm vision of who the character "really" is. Nobody can have that—every way we engage with media is coloured by our own values and perspectives, and that bleeds into the way we think about and write characters. This is sometimes a difficult dichotomy to balance against the principle of "they would not fucking say that", but to borrow some old and too-simplified physics, I think it can be useful to consider that a character is in many ways like an electron in an electron cloud. Their precise and perfect characterisation is not something that we can ever truly locate, but we can identify the area of narrative space it is most likely to be in.

The task of the character study, I feel, is to hammer down on the part of that narrative space that you find most compelling. To take the meat of their character and cook it the way you would want it served to you. A character study is not to please anyone else. A character study—or, at least, the kind of character study I write—exists for you to get your feelings out about the character you have been rotating in your brain onto the page. It also exists, of course, so that you can try to show those feelings to other people and hope they feel them too, but you will never succeed in actually capturing those feelings in the first place if you don't allow yourself to write your authentic vision of the character.

They don't have to be your blorbo, or your problematic fave, or your three corners of the OC design triangle, or whatever, but when you write them, for that space and time they do have to be yours. Otherwise, what's the point?

Once you have that vision, you can put them in practically any situation you like and as long as there's something in it for them to bounce off, you're going to be able to tell a story that reveals something about the character. If you look at the "plots" of a selection of my character studies, we have "one guy folds sheets, another guy asks him questions" as a plot, we have "a pair of exes talk across a tabletop after a party", we have "oh LAWD they FAWKING" like four and a half times, we have "retelling the plot of something else" twice, and we even have "two people on a helicopter flight for an hour". It's not really complicated stuff. It doesn't need to be. The character, or characters, just need to be in a situation where they're going to have some reason to think about, and maybe even talk about, whatever conflict or idea or relationship you find most compelling about them.

With that said, it should be noted that it's... well, for me, with the way I do things, it's very very difficult to conceive of writing a character study in any situation without a clear and central conflict the character or characters are grappling with. All of my character studies revolve around a problem a character has and how they react to it. And yes, "having a conflict" is, like, the quiddity of a story, the most basic plot diagram there is. But what I'm trying to say here is that even in the story I mentioned where two people sit in a helicopter and talk to each other, the story is intensely focused on the internal struggle one of those characters is having with the choices that led to her sitting in that helicopter and how much they do, or don't, make her like the person she's sitting opposite (both more and less than she knows). And that's the sort of thing that I think is key. The conflict, in my eyes, needs to be philosophically central to the way you view the character and what you want to say about them. It needs to be tightly intertwined into what you find most compelling about them—the thing that you just want to sink your hands into and squeeze, for good or ill. That's how you get to really show the world who they are and why you care about that.

After that, I really think that in a lot of ways it just comes down to the prose. How deeply can you write into your character's head? Are you colouring even your description of the world around them with the way they would see it—or are you taking the opposite path and presenting the character entirely through someone else's eyes, so that you can characterise them through the distance between what the other person thinks about them and how they present themselves? You don't need frame-perfect metaphors or the Inanna-Ishtar LGBTQIA+ sharingan-coloured prose to do that, but you do need to focus on writing in a way that expresses the character.

This does take focus. How much focus depends on how specialised you are into that style of prose, but it is focus nonetheless: you need to think of your sentences, each and every one, as tools to communicate something about your understanding of the character that you want the audience to know. Some of them will inevitably instead become vehicles to reach a point where you can communicate that understanding, but something as simple as what a character notices first when they walk into a room tells you something about them. Lean on that. Lean into that. After all, if you're writing a character study, the writing should study your character.

(Colour this advice with the fact that I am, as you've probably realised from reading my writing, very much a prose-focused writer. I have spent near on fifteen years, since before I even graduated high school, honing my prose for poetry of language and interiority so that I can write in the way I most enjoy reading. That affects what I value in writing, and it affects my opinion on the way people should write. I believe what I am saying is true and good and useful, because I have faith in the way I engage with my art, but my advice does not chart the sole and singular course to the ever-distant utopia.)

To tl;dr myself, my advice for writing character studies fundamentally boils down to to the idea that I think a character study is most potent when it presents a vision of a character that the writer has clearly obsessed over. That they have layered with their thoughts, their perspective, and their heart to the degree that it drips even from their prose. A character study with the confidence to say this is what I think is compelling about this character, and I want you to see it too.

I may not agree with it, I may think "They Would Not Have Fucking Said That", I may even think the writer has just invented an unsustainable interpretation of the character that demonstrates startling reading incomprehension and I can't believe I have to share the same fandom as these people.

But at the same time, I know people have thought and said that about my own works—and I'm still happy that I wrote them.

I have far more respect for someone who's written an entirely committed and deranged interpretation of a character that I think is Flatly Fucking Wrong than I do someone who presents me with the most milquetoast interpretation I can't disagree with. If I choose to read a character study, it's because I want to see you study the character. That's, as the meme goes, why I'm here.

So, really: focus on determining who you think the character is, write them the way you want to see them written, keep your prose tight to who you think the character is (not just "would they say that?" or "would they think that?" but "how would they describe that?" and "what would they see in that?"), and commit to the bit.

(If you've managed to read to the bottom—thank you for entertaining my rambling, and I hope it helped!)

[ri47]

One of the often misunderstood laws of Kishar is the prohibition of magery.

To the outside observer, this law would seem to prohibit the pursuit of demisciences, especially fleshcraft... but it is plainly obvious that this is not the case.

It follows, then, that it must exist to ban something else entirely.

Identity is at the heart of the Kishar political system, visible in every aspect of its culture and customs. To subvert one's will through the use of fleshcrafting is permissible, but to subvert one's identity is a grave sin.

One notable example of magery is the creation of an ancilla: a former-human object. A spiritual torture meted out as punishment to those born unwanted.

The exact origin of the term is unclear, with the prevailing theory being that it betrays the preference of the technique's innovators for producing male heirs at the expense of their women. In Kishar usage, ancilla is not considered a gendered term, which creates some deal of confusion when attempting to convey the concept to outsiders.

To create an ancilla, a subject is taken, most often an unwanted scion or bastard child of an affluent noble family. Various procedures are performed, first removing the subject's ability to speak, then the subject's memories, and then their very form.

When nothing is left, the resulting being is often kept as a sort of servant by their former family, tending to their titled scions.

While many believe that ancilla are surgically modified humans, it would be more appropriate to describe them as a set of human vital systems that, through necrosurgical ritual, is transplanted into an artificial body. In many respects, an ancilla is more similar to a pygmalion than a human.

It is generally considered fashionable for ancillae to stand taller than humans, and while their artificial flesh does take on some semblance of organic life, it remains incapable of taking in proper nutrition, lending to their mannequin-like appearance.

Because the process of creating an ancilla erases the subject's soul, they can no longer become a vessel. Within a few days of their bodily transplant, every last vestige of their former self is erased.

It is rare for a ancilla to live longer than a decade after its creation. Should the procedure be performed incompletely (whether on accident or on purpose), the fractured soul's immune responses lead to a much swifter, more lucid death.

While the creation of ancillae is technically outlawed, their continued existence reveals how ineffective the prohibition on magery is in practice. So long as their creation remains behind locked doors, so long as a family keeps to their own affairs, a family is unlikely to be punished.

[ae-neon]

Feel Free to Ignore

Don't have the time and brain capacity to jump into Memories of Ice rn (though I have read the prologue) so I'm rereading Gardens of The Moon for comfort (pain)

Barely past the battle of Pale and already my brain is itching for connections and answers

- What the hell happened to Dassem Ultor, what god did he betray and where is he (he's definitely not dead)

- the emperor met a watery demise 🤔 nothing about Ammanas /Shadowthrone /Kellanved feels connected to water but I'm remembering the stranded ship with the decapitated crew in the warren with an ocean that was not an ocean at all

-^ now that I'm thinking about this the T'lan Imass we meet there do something similar to the Jaghut children in the moi prologue, sacrificing someone to seal a rift

- the cough in Lorn's room after Paran left and how she knew what happened in the throne room. Laseen's guards also react to unspoken commands, she remembers Paran from years ago and given what we see when Kalam meets her in DHG, there is definitely magery at play

- can't wait to get more of Tavore, I was only slightly disappointed we didn't see her in DHG but it was completely understandable given how much that book already covered

- ^ also given (I might be misremembering) how it was Tavore who arranged a member of the Talon to look after Felisin, Gamet the houseguard and the mystery of his background is standing out more to me now

- I missed quick Ben and Kalam duo so bad

- Lorn, I love you

- Calot was actually so sweet for the 0.5 seconds we knew him 😭

- Hairlock is 7 cities???? He is also stinky and should have ripped Tayschrenn's throat out

- From Sail's description of Dujek looking younger and stronger and even a little taller than he should and given his fame, I think he had already begun his ascension

- I already figured out the sister of cold night's identity from her talk with kallor but in hindsight it's actually so sad that part of her bond with Bellurdan was due to the advice she'd taken from her brother

- I don't know why my brain didn't register on first read that the bridgeburners had essentially been stuck digging under Pale for YEARS before the battle of Pale. I feel so sorry for Whiskeyjack and his men

- the poem about Caladan Brood implying Anomander Rake has "recently" awaken

- had to check but during her speculation on the warren, the bonecaster guesses omtose phellack, tellann, and starvald demelain but not the two tiste elder warrens.

-^ the tiste andii are elder creatures, something like Mother Dark's first children but the bonecaster doesn't consider them. I wonder if they didn't cross paths as a species then

- wtf really happened in the last 7 cities campaign, like I remember it's implied that whatever went down at Aren was a mess

- and what the fuck halved the T'lan Imass forces

Some of these might get answered in Gardens itself but it's crazy how much more there is to pick up on during a reread and I'm only 2 books into the series. Malazan gonna have me set for life 😭